Look Both Ways(19)

For a second we all sit there in silence. Then Jessa says, “That’s it?” and a few people laugh nervously, which breaks the tension. Nobody seems sure if we’re allowed to leave or not, but we all scoot toward our friends and start talking in low voices.

Zoe puts a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, c’mere. You’ve got shells in your hair.”

When I was eight, I got Silly Putty in my ponytail while Marisol was babysitting me. It took her nearly half an hour to pick it all out, but I sat there happily the whole time, pleased to have her undivided attention. That’s exactly how I feel now as Zoe combs her fingers through my sticky hair, careful not to pull as she picks out the fragments of shell. She’s so focused on me that I become hyperaware of how I’m sitting, how loudly I’m breathing, whether I smell like egg. I’m suddenly not positive I put on deodorant this morning. When Zoe finally says, “There, you’re done,” it’s kind of a relief, but I also feel weirdly let down.

It’s been more than five minutes now, and since Marcus still isn’t back, we decide it’s probably safe to leave. As I head toward the dining hall with Zoe, Livvy, Jessa, Kenji, and Todd, I say what I’m sure everyone’s thinking: “So…that was complete bullshit, right?”



I wait for everyone to laugh and say, Oh my God, seriously! But they’re all quiet, and then Zoe says, “Well, yes and no.”

“What do you mean?”

“His execution’s definitely over-the-top, but I think Marcus’s theories are actually pretty sound,” Zoe says. “I really liked what he said about how acting is creating, not recreating.”

“He’s one crazy-ass dude, but he’s kind of brilliant,” Jessa says.

“Really? You guys thought that was a good class?” I try to sound confident, but now I kind of wish I hadn’t said anything. From now on, I’m going to wait for someone else to express an opinion first.

“I mean, I don’t think he taught us enough,” Zoe says. “It doesn’t really seem fair to point out our flaws without giving us any tools for how to correct them, you know?” It’s big of her to say “us”; according to Marcus, she doesn’t have any flaws.

“The whole thing was pretty gimmicky,” Kenji says. “The guy’s obviously supersmart, but I wish he’d show us the substance underneath the flashy stuff. I felt like he didn’t bother because we’re so low on the totem pole.”

I still don’t see why everyone thinks Marcus is so brilliant; all he did was distract us. Sutton and Twyla could do that. “What about that whole stabbing-yourself-in-the-leg thing? That was nuts, right?” I say. I want so badly to hear everyone confirm that I have the right opinion about something.

“I bet that’s not even a true story,” Kenji says. “Who even has a letter opener except, like, people from Downton Abbey? I think he was making a point about how there should be no limits on what you’re willing to do for art, you know? And obviously there are limits, but maybe he was trying to tell us to push ourselves. The whole thing was probably supposed to be a metaphor about boundaries?”



“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too,” Zoe says, and everyone else nods.

This never even occurred to me, and I feel really stupid. “Well, I wish he’d work on his nonmetaphorical boundaries,” I say. “I still have egg in my hair.”

Zoe shoots me a sympathetic smile. “You got the worst of it for sure. Barney is nothing compared to being egged.”

“I know he was trying to start things off with a bang, but I wish it hadn’t been you up there,” Livvy says. She probably means she’s sorry I had to suffer, but what I hear is I wish it had been someone who could’ve handled it better.

“It was really brave of you to get up first, not knowing what to expect,” Zoe says. “Marcus is going to remember that.”

The rest of my friends agree, and I try to be gracious and thank them, but now I wish I’d never started this conversation in the first place. When someone takes a blind leap into the unknown, it doesn’t necessarily mean she’s brave. Sometimes it means she doesn’t understand what she’s up against.





My first rehearsal for Se?or Hidalgo’s Circus of Wonders is the next evening, and just walking into the Slice is a little disorienting. It’s a regular black-box theater, except that if it were an actual box, it would be the kind two-dollar-pizza places give out to hold a single greasy slice. I can’t even tell where the audience is supposed to sit. Pandora and Natasha are chatting with a couple of other apprentices in the corner, but I have no desire to talk to them, so I head over to the circle of folding chairs at the other end of the room. There’s an upright piano pushed against one of the walls, and part of me wants to go over and play something to calm me down, but I don’t want to be that girl who starts showing off before rehearsal even starts. I’m trying to stay positive—maybe this will finally be the Allerdale experience that clicks for me and makes me love performing. But after what my mom said about the quality of the side projects here, it’s hard to be too optimistic.



“Hey,” says a voice behind me, and when I turn around, there’s Russell. “Brooklyn, right?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Wait, you’re not in this, are you?”